A Constant Woman
by Funky In Fishnet
Summary: Constance Bonacieux gets to know those that d'Artagnan calls his friends and comrades. She is changing, she is appreciated.


_**Disclaimer: **I own nothing._

* * *

**A CONSTANT WOMAN**

Constance knew that she was letting trouble into her home when she allowed d'Artagnan to move in. She understood her husband's concerns, she had many herself. But she was also vividly struck by another equally strong sensation, a feeling of excitement and energy. It was, Constance soon discovered, quite addictive.

So she watched as d'Artagnan became entangled with Musketeers that he had initially wanted to kill, she let him kiss her to ensure his disguise, she met a strikingly dangerous woman who chilled her to the bone.

D'Artagnan didn't promise that the woman wouldn't call again. Constance spied a posy of fragrant blue flowers lying on d'Artagnan's bed and remembered the woman's perfume. Her breath caught in her throat. She tried to explain to d'Artagnan but he was always distracted and while he agreed that the mystery woman was trouble, he didn't sound overly concerned. Constance recognised his expression and pressed her lips together hard. She considered telling her husband.

If she ordered d'Artagnan to leave, he might end up in that woman's bed or worse. It wasn't mere jealousy that twisted Constance's heart, she already knew well envy's sharp ugly cut but there was more in her heart than just that. She had seen the woman's calculating eyes, every movement of her body an intention. Constance had felt weighed and measured, assessed as a tool to be used, nothing more. If that woman ever decided d'Artagnan was no longer useful…

Though how exactly was she planning on_ using_ him anyway?

Constance let go a harsh breath and resolutely thought of other things. Here d'Artagnan would stay, because he needed all the help he could get.

* * *

Constance enjoyed learning how to use both sword and musket, particularly after suffering Marsac's unwanted advances. Her husband wasn't always home and d'Artagnan's presence ensured more trouble than safety. Constance had secretly admired the skill of flashing steel and well-aimed grapeshot from a young age, though never the senseless joy that soldiers seemed to find in conflict. She remembered fights that she had witnessed, her father never quite fully turning her face from the violence as he muttered opinions on form and posture.

The pistol was weighty in her hands but with d'Artagnan's breath in her ear, she learned how to wield it. She first learned the sword on a sunny day, heat prickling her skin and d'Artagnan's playful words goading her on. She had always honed her fury through speech, now she gained a sharper accompaniment. The metal arched under the bright sun and her pleasure at her own achievement bubbled up in laughter, that addictive sensation rushing through her again. D'Artagnan's gaze brought her a very private pleasure. He did not judge her for wishing to learn how to wield such weapons. His outlook filled part of her that had lain untouched until now.

She secreted a sword and a pistol where no one would find them, especially her husband.

* * *

She sewed and she cooked and she kept a good respectable house. That was what people saw, what she needed them to see. But one day, she was sorting through laundry – her own, her husbands, and what d'Artagnan hadn't ruined through sheer reckless folly. As she separated and bundled fabric, she felt something shallowly slice through the skin of her fingers.

There was a blade wrapped up in one of d'Artagnan's shirts. It definitely wasn't his weapon, so how had it come to be with his clothing? Constance felt her feet stumble, her vision blurring briefly. There was a bitter scent in the air that made her stomach churn. There was the faintest hint of horribly familiar perfume.

She staggered to the door and quickly had a message sent to the barracks. She did not send for d'Artagnan.

By the time Athos appeared, she was feverishly crushing together ingredients for a poultice. Athos stayed silent and offered by gesture to strap the poultice securely to her hand. Constance's heartbeat was so loud in her ears. She wondered if it was liquid she could hear in her lungs.

She closed her eyes. She was aware of someone guiding her forward and when she opened her eyes again, she found that she was now sat in a comfortable chair in the parlour, the curtains drawn and a blanket over her legs. Athos sat in the corner, his eyes fixed on her.

He waited until Constance had taken several deep breaths before asking softly "What happened?"

Constance cleared her throat. There was a cup of water on the table at her elbow. Athos didn't presume to offer assistance, not when they were alone in the house and didn't know each other at all well. He was better mannered than most of the soldiers Constance had encountered.

Sipping at the water, Constance dropped her gaze for a moment, gathering her hazy thoughts. "There was a knife amongst d'Artagnan's garments. It wasn't his. When I was sorting them for laundry, this happened."

She checked her hand, peering under the well-strapped poultice. The cuts didn't look infected and she could think and move clearly again. She had been too lucky. She took another deep breath.

Athos' gaze swept her; it felt assessing and impersonal. It caused Constance's expression to tighten and more words to spill forth.

"d'Artagnan has a visitor sometimes, a dangerous friend."

"You have a Musketeer apprentice for a lodger and soldiers regularly paying calls here. Some would say that danger has become somewhat relative for you, madame."

Constance's lips thinned and she shook her head. "Soldiers are boys in the end. _She_ frightens me."

Athos looked at her for a moment. He did not dismiss her fears. Constance had summoned him in the first place because she had seen how he acted, how he weighed things, how he led the others. She had seen him try to protect d'Artagnan.

Athos got to his feet. "You feel better now, madame? I can have d'Artagnan return to keep you company."

Constance shook her head and she levered herself carefully out of the chair. "He's got enough trouble of his own."

"He's your friend, madame. He is lucky to have you looking out for him."

Constance was taken aback by the kind and sincere words; there was no agenda in them. Athos bowed neatly and began to take his leave. Constance wondered suddenly who he'd been before he had chosen the Musketeer uniform. He must have grown up somewhere fine and privileged to speak and act as he did, to command so comfortably. She was glad this was d'Artagnan's superior, though he rarely smiled or appeared relaxed. Who had he been before?

"He is your friend too, monsieur_. _You're both lucky."

Athos paused and though he nodded, there was something in his eyes that spoke of pain and regret. Constance watched him leave, then went to gather up the fallen laundry. The blade was gone.

When d'Artagnan's comrades next used her kitchen as a meeting place, she poured Athos a cup of wine and offered none to the others. That immediately gained their attention.

"That is hardly hospitable," Aramis protested.

Constance fixed him with a look. "Neither is your attitude."

d'Artagnan reached for the bottle but Constance swiftly whisked it away. "Marshalling all of you is thirsty work I'm sure."

There were more protests but Constance left them to it, taking the wine with her. She caught sight of a tiny smile on Athos' face. Good.

* * *

Aramis was too glib for Constance's liking. His words and smile were slippery and his friends were not much better. She had heard of Marsac's passing, but she did not offer condolences to Aramis. He was smiling the next time she saw him, but there was a shadow in his expression that hadn't been there before. Or she could have imagined it.

Once, Constance saw him fingering a pendant, no, a cross, that hung on a jewelled cord around his neck. He wore a far-away expression, all his usual amusement wiped away. He looked completely different.

During a swordwork lesson, d'Artagnan mentioned the importance of Aramis' fine needlework; he revealed a scar just below his knee, barely visible thanks to Aramis' efforts. Constance could recall several occasions when Aramis had rhapsodised about his own skilful hands and the pleasure that they so often brought (he had thought her out of earshot at the time, supposedly).

If the others needed help, Constance would not hesitate in sending a message to Aramis. But he would never be her first choice.

* * *

The heavy knocking at the door brought Constance running. She had grown used to such urgencies since d'Artagnan had become part of her life, but still her heart thumped quickly as she unlocked the door and Porthos almost tumbled inside. Not bothering to ask questions yet, she shut the door behind him and helped him find his feet again. He was squinting as though in pain and was also periodically clutching at his thigh; he must have suffered an injury there because he was limping.

"I'm sorry, there was nowhere else I could..." his words broke off into a clenched hiss of pain before forming again. "They're coming."

Constance didn't pause; instead she began guiding him towards the house's back door. "Keep quiet, I doubt they'll look out here."

Porthos looked grateful but didn't attempt to speak again, focusing on his thigh instead. Constance mentally tallied what might be needed to staunch pain great enough to distract a man of Porthos' size and strength. She was gathering bandages when there was more knocking at the door. She prayed as she went to answer it, mentally reminding herself of where her sword and pistol were hidden.

Several thick-set men stood on the other idea of the door. The one in front removed his hat and at least attempted to appear polite.

"Pardon for disturbing you, madame, only a man, a thief, has something that belongs to us, and we saw him heading this way."

"A thief?" Constance's voice was rich with disbelief and perhaps something like fear too, not entirely for show.

The man raised a hand to reassure her, Constance noted his thick gold ring, a signet perhaps? "I'm sure he's no quarrel with you, madame, but it would be best if we checked, just to be sure."

That wasn't a request and before she could object, a couple of the men pushed past her into the house. Constance spluttered, but didn't stop them. As much as she would have liked to order them from her property, she was greatly outnumbered. So instead she followed them, taut with tension, watching as they checked each room, muttering to each other about soldiers and someone called Evette.

Her husband arrived just as the men were coming down the stairs. "Constance? What is the meaning of this?"

"Don't blame your wife, monsieur," the leader stepped forward. "A dangerous thief that we have business with came this way; we wanted to be sure he hadn't found shelter here."

Her husband looked worried. "A thief? Nothing's been taken?"

Constance shook her head. "Perhaps we should call on Captain Treville?"

"An excellent idea. Gentlemen? I have the ear of the Captain, I'm sure you'll want to have this thief brought to justice."

The group looked distinctly unenthusiastic about this idea, their gazes darting towards the door. The leader's expression was more of a grimace than a smile. "Thank you, but we have business elsewhere. I'm sure we can hunt the thief down ourselves, it's hardly a matter for the Captain."

"But gentlemen..."

The men left hurriedly and Constance smiled as she filled a bowl with water and gathered up the bandages. "I have a visitor to patch up."

Her husband did not look impressed or surprised. "Another Musketeer no doubt. I hope you've charged him for your time and kindness."

"Oh, he'll owe me a debt."

Her husband appeared satisfied, though whether he had made the connection between their visitor and the wanted thief remained unsaid. Constance went to find Porthos who was pressed up against the building's back wall, his pistol ready in his hand. Constance indicated for him to come back inside.

"One mention of your Captain and they decided to search elsewhere."

Porthos grinned as he limped his way into the kitchen and sat down heavily. "Yeah, he has that effect on people."

Constance applied a cold compress to his head with a firm hand, earning herself a glare but no verbal complaints. She did not offer to see to his thigh and he did not suggest such a thing.

"So why did you become a thief today?" she asked, because she had a right to know after her house had been invaded by clearly disreputable characters.

Porthos unbuckled his coat and grimaced as he reached for something tucked close to his chest. His clenched fist revealed a small clinking purse.

"Evidence, of forging the King's image on coins. There's been rumours for months but never any proof."

He tipped out the very few coins that the purse contained. Constance peered at them, they looked real to her. Porthos nodded at her expression.

"Every time we thought we had evidence, it turned out we just had King's silver instead. Your visitors though, they wouldn't stick their necks beyond their little foxhole for ordinary coins. So _this_ isn't just silver. There's an expert who can pick out imperfections and differences on close examination, so now we can learn the forger's mistakes."

Constance nodded. "I hope it's worth the limp."

Porthos snorted. "It might stop the Cardinal from telling the King that the Musketeers aren't fit to protect the honour of France. Well, it might stop him for a day or two anyway."

Constance could hear her husband at work already, pointedly ignoring whoever was visiting his house. She understood well his attitude, though she poured Porthos a generous cup of wine. She knew him the least, but she had seen how he frequently chipped away at Aramis' arrogance and Athos' seriousness. To her, he'd always seemed a solid wall, absorbing what the others could not.

"Should I send a message to the garrison, or are more Musketeers on their way here already, expecting hospitality?"

Porthos smiled. "If they don't see me by nightfall, they'll start a search. You're safe tonight."

Constance turned to take wine to her husband and to give Porthos privacy so that he could tend to his thigh wound. By the time she returned, Porthos was gone, as was almost all the bandage cloths and half of the bottle of wine. The water in the bowl was bloody. He'd left behind a handful of coins, wrapped in a scribbled note – _not forgeries._

He was the only Musketeer who ever thought to leave her coin for her trouble.

* * *

Come rain or shine, and when time allowed it, Constance learned the pistol and the sword, her movements sharpening, her confidence growing. D'Artagnan's gaze was often upon her, Constance enjoyed its warmth.

She leaned on her husband and soothed and argued away his worries. He continued to make dresses for d'Artagnan's dangerous friend. Constance checked her house regularly for any unexpected gifts and kept poultices as ready as her sword and pistol.

The sense of excitement she had first encountered upon meeting d'Artagnan had not faded, if anything it had grown.

Come rain or shine, there were Musketeers seeking shelter or making plans in her house. Come rain or shine, she let them.

_-the end_


End file.
